


Save Your Lovin’ Arms For A Rainy Day (I’ll Find Comfort In My Pain)

by IndigoNight



Category: Captain America (Movies), Daredevil (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blood Sharing, Bondage, Bondage and Discipline, Demons, Dom/sub Play, M/M, Master/Slave, Overstimulation, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Possessive Behavior, Praise Kink, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-14
Updated: 2018-05-06
Packaged: 2019-04-22 19:45:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14315841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IndigoNight/pseuds/IndigoNight
Summary: Steve has to admit that even though it’s been over a year since he brought Bucky home, he’s still a little unnerved by what most of them charitably call Bucky’s ‘condition’.He’s part demon nowjust sounds so absurd, Catholic upbringing and the fact that they live in the same building as a literal mythological god aside.Luckily for them, the "Devil of Hell's Kitchen" has exactly the skillset they need.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sunrow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunrow/gifts).



> Written based on [sunrow's](http://sunrow.tumblr.com) [gorgeous art](http://sunrow.tumblr.com/post/172930028093/so-happy-i-can-finally-post-this-just-some-bound) prompt for the MCU Kink Bang. Major thanks to all of my endlessly patient friends for all of the handholding and cheerleading.
> 
> Title taken from the song Eraser by Ed Sheeran.

Steve hovers in the foyer of his apartment, rocking back and forth on the heels of his bare feet and worrying at a rip in the hem of his shirt. Through the door he can easily hear the sound of the elevator out in the hall opening and footsteps approaching the apartment in a steady, even tread. 

“Matt,” he greets, a little too loud and a little too enthusiastically - although the fact that he opened the door before Matt had the chance to knock probably gave him away anyway. 

The crooked little small that spreads across Matt’s face is half bemusement and half embarrassment, and Steve has come to realize that that is just how Matt always smiles even when he has nothing to be embarrassed about. “Bad day?” Matt surmises, kind enough to at least superficially phrase it as a question. He has his cane gripped loosely in hand and his sunglasses tucked away in his front pocket, which means his soft brown eyes are visible to enhance his expression of mild chagrin. 

It makes Steve smile, just a little bit, the corners of his lips lifting almost against his will. He huffs out a sound that isn’t quite a laugh but is much closer than he’d expected to manage today and shakes his head in response. Then he catches himself and remembers to add, “No kidding,” aloud in order to clarify his response. He aims to sound light, joking even, and no doubt falls miserably short. Not that he expects Matt to be surprised; after all, Steve doesn’t send out emergency calls lightly. 

“I guess we should get right to it, then,” Matt says. He sets aside his cane by the door - Steve is always careful to make sure the apartment is thoroughly tidied up whenever Matt comes over, both as a courtesy to Matt and - especially on days like today - as a way to deal with his own jitters while he waits for Matt to arrive. On his way past Steve, Matt walks just a little bit closer than necessary, just barely enough to brush up against Steve’s arm. Most people would assume it was an accident, but Steve knows better; what he doesn’t know is whether Matt did it to try and read something off of Steve’s body language or whether he intended it as some sort of tacit gesture of reassurance, but either way, it  _ is  _ reassuring and Steve is hardly about to complain.

Steve catches himself still standing with the open door in his hand, watching dumbly as Matt navigates his way into the living room. Matt moves slowly but not cautiously - he’s memorized the layout of the apartment by now, and trusts Steve to let him know if anything’s been moved. Steve may know, better than most, how deceiving looks can be, but he still can’t quite get over how benign Matt always seems in his cheap, slightly ill-fitting suit and unruly hair. Coming in off the street, Matt looks like exactly what he is: a kind, optimistic lawyer who makes a very meager living by defending the innocent. Of course, what Steve and only a very small handful of people know, is that there’s so much more lurking just beneath the surface. 

Matt is taking his time in crossing the large, mostly open space of the living room. Steve thinks that it’s a way building up to what’s coming, a sort of getting himself in the zone; Steve doesn’t understand it, but he does respect it, which is an apt descriptor for most of what’s going to happen in the next couple of hours. “Good afternoon, Bucky,” Matt says finally, his tone mild and conversational as he comes to a stop in front of where Bucky is kneeling on the carpet.

Bucky’s response is to bare his teeth and snarl. Steve watches as Bucky’s muscles flex in what looks like a ripple starting in his calves and thighs and moving up his bare chest, through his taut shoulders and all the way up into his eyes which flash dark and angry.

Steve has to admit that even though it’s been over a year since he brought Bucky home, he’s still a little unnerved by what most of them charitably call Bucky’s ‘condition’.  _ He’s part demon now  _ just sounds so absurd, Catholic upbringing and the fact that they live in the same building as a literal mythological god aside. But that’s how Matt, Thor, and Dr. Strange - in more or less words by turns - describe it. What Steve can definitively say is that sometimes Bucky is  _ Bucky  _ \- albeit severely traumatized, changed inevitably during their seventy some years apart - and other times Bucky is…  _ something else _ . Something animal and uncontrolled, all coiled violence and snarling instinct. Steve also knows that Matt helps, that Matt can reach the thing that isn’t Bucky in ways that Steve can’t.

Matt appears neither surprised nor offended by Bucky’s response. Steve, on the other hand, finally releases the door in order to lurch across the room. He doesn’t try to put himself in between Bucky and Matt - it isn’t necessary and would cause more problems than it would fix, but he does move around behind Bucky so that he can put a restraining hand on his shoulder. It’s a warning, more than anything. Bucky doesn’t actually try to attack Matt - Steve has a suspicion that Bucky  _ couldn’t _ really attack Matt, even if he wanted to - he just glowers and growls and hunches up his shoulders miserably. But, if nothing else, it reassures Steve to have a hand on Bucky. It eases any worries Steve might have about Bucky causing trouble, but, even more importantly, it’s a tactile reminder that no matter how strange and foreign the expression on Bucky’s face or the sounds he makes might seem - that no matter how weird what they’re about to do is - Bucky is real, and safe, and  _ Steve’s _ .

“Maybe you should fill me in on what happened,” Matt suggests placidly. He takes a step away from Bucky, not retreating but giving Bucky a bit of space. Matt takes off his jacket, folding it neatly and draping it over the back of the couch, then he unbuttons his cuffs and starts rolling up his sleeves. Steve has to admit, it is kind of distracting; Matt has excellent forearms.

Steve keeps his hand on Bucky’s shoulder, fingers digging in just a little. It’s the left shoulder - Steve makes a point of touching it regularly, he’s getting used to it, really, mostly. The thick ridge of scar tissue that circles the joint is rough under Steve’s fingers, but he finds himself stroking it absently. It’s shocking, the difference in temperature as Steve’s thumb moves from the warm skin closer to Bucky’s neck out toward his arm where the skin is, by comparison, disturbingly cold. Really, it’s just room temperature, but that’s on average a nearly twenty degree difference which makes it  _ seem  _ like ice. It looks different too, the red line of scar tissue creating a sharp border between the blood-warm, tanned skin of Bucky’s shoulder and the icy white flesh of his arm. It’s another part of Bucky that Steve doesn’t understand. Another souvenir of the fall that had “killed” Bucky and the abuse he’d subsequently suffered at the hands of the Red Room and HYDRA. To Steve it just looks like dead flesh sewn back onto Bucky’s shoulder - and apparently he’s more or less not wrong, but Steve tries really hard not to think about it in those terms too often. Every person with any magical skills whatsoever who has come in contact with Bucky since Steve brought him to the Tower has made very clear that the thing is positively reeking of necromantic magic - which is apparently a separate thing from magical energy produced by Bucky’s semi-demonic soul, but probably has some kind of connection. Steve hates magic, he doesn’t understand it and he’s not sure he wants to understand it, not if it means facing the reality of  _ necromancy _ and what it might mean in relation to Bucky. What matters to Steve is that Bucky is - empirically, as far as all of Steve’s enhanced senses can tell - alive, and Steve doesn’t much care what exactly it was that brought Bucky home to him; as long as it keeps working, it’s worth it. The cold, slightly stiff flesh is unsettling under Steve’s fingers, but it’s Bucky,  _ his  _ Bucky, and Steve will happily take him as he is - demons, weird magical body parts, and all.

Steve’s grip on Bucky’s shoulders helps to ground them both; Bucky doesn’t relax, staying as stiff and tense as ever, but he does sway back, just a little, just slightly pressing into Steve’s touch. Bucky is naked - part of the routine, Steve isn’t sure why it helps but it does, apparently, and Steve is happy to give Bucky anything he needs - kneeling, bound at the wrists and ankles. The cuffs are soft on the outside, Steve had insisted on that, padded and comfortable, but they’re strong, firm cuffs with a thick chain connecting them made out of some scraps of vibranium under the padding. Bucky probably could break them, with enough time and determination - whatever else it is, Bucky’s left arm alone is at least as strong as Steve’s entire body - but he won’t. 

Despite the tension running through every line of his body, despite the growling and the near visible waves of anger coming off of him, Bucky kneels passively where Steve put him. It’s been almost an hour since Steve got out the cuffs and put Bucky on the floor like this, but if Bucky’s legs are stiff or his knees are sore he doesn’t show it. Steve finds himself stroking the muscles of Bucky’s shoulder, just a little bit, almost like a kid worrying at the edge of his favorite blanket; he wishes that a little gentle touch could be enough to calm Bucky, but it’s not, and that’s why they need Matt here.

“He attacked Tony,” Steve tells Matt eventually, after it’s clear that Bucky isn’t in any mood to talk yet.

Matt pauses, one sleeve only halfway rolled up. He’s half turned away from them, facing more toward the couch than Steve and Bucky, but his head is tilted, ear cocked and that’s the part that matters. His eyebrows lift in an expression that isn’t quite surprise so much as it is a question. “Attacked how?” he asks. He doesn’t seem overly concerned, but Matt is an intuitive guy and he’s smart enough to know that if anything really serious had gone down the atmosphere in the room would be very different.

“He threw a spoon at Tony’s head,” Steve says, and a distant part of his brain is aware of how weirdly incongruous the words are compared to the gravity of his tone as he says them. It sounds juvenile, and it is. It also isn’t all that uncommon for things to get thrown around the Avengers kitchen - Thor still hasn’t entirely lost the habit of smashing mugs when he gets excited, Natasha has been known to emphasize her point with a well placed piece of cutlery, and Clint’s favorite hobby tends to be trying to get pieces of cereal - or candy, peas, pretty much any small food-based projectile he happens to have on hand - caught in the hair of whoever happens to be around him. The problem is that Bucky has the distinct disadvantage of not always being able to control his actions. 

“What did he hit?” Matt asks, his tone - on the surface anyway - nothing more than mild curiosity.

“One of the cabinet doors,” Steve admits. “It went all the way through the wood, less than half an inch of the handle left sticking out.”

Matt smiles, a vague, crooked little tilt of his lips. “Impressive,” he says.

“That’s not helpful,” Steve deadpans. But he feels himself relaxing anyway, it was impressive, and there’s something that’s just intrinsically reassuring about having Matt around. It’s partly because Matt has the key to helping Bucky, that Steve trusts Matt to help him calm ‘the demon’ or whatever down and bring Bucky back to himself again. But it’s more than that too, it’s just something about Matt, the shyness in his smile, his wry humor. Steve  _ likes _ Matt, but he figures Matt is a pretty easy guy to like.

“You’re right, I’m sorry.” But Matt is chuckling, just a little, and he ducks his head as though that will hide it. “I assume Tony is fine?”

“Honestly?” Steve admits, “I don’t think he would have noticed if I hadn’t reacted. Tony isn’t great at spatial awareness when he’s refilling his coffee cup.” It’s easier to find the whole thing funny now, now that he has some distance from it, now that Tony is several floor away in his lab, now that Bucky is kneeling quietly at Steve’s feet and Matt is here to take care of him. It hadn’t been funny at the time. At the time it had been terrifying; Steve had heard the spoon hit the cabinet and his mind had flashed back to the months of desperate, often hopeless chasing before Steve had managed to bring Bucky in, then even longer of living on pins and needles, of never being sure about Bucky’s mental stability, never knowing when Bucky might attack someone for real.

But that was before they had Matt.

Matt’s finished rolling up his sleeves. He pulls off his tie as well, setting it carefully next to his jacket, and his fingers are working deftly at the buttons of his collar as he moves back over to them. “Well, Bucky, do you have anything to say for yourself?” he asks.

Bucky doesn’t quite flinch away from Matt, but another roll of tension ripples through him. Bucky ducks his head, his gaze locking on the carpet in front of Matt’s toes. From Steve’s position behind Bucky he can see the way Bucky’s arms flex against the restraints; he isn’t seriously trying to break loose, it’s more like a fidget. But he doesn’t say anything, and Steve isn’t really surprised.

“I don’t think he’s ready to talk yet,” Steve says. It feels a little bit like he’s making excuses for Bucky, but even though Matt can’t see Bucky’s expression or body language he can probably tell what state Bucky is currently in anyway. This is definitely not the worst situation they’ve had. In the early days, when Steve had had to drag Bucky to the Tower - and then  _ back  _ to the Tower  _ again _ a couple of times - in full body chains, when Bucky had been little more than a snarling animal and Steve couldn’t figure out why, that had been much worse. It had taken a while to figure out what was wrong, and then even longer find someone who could help. At first they’d thought it was just brainwashing, Natasha and Clint had spent weeks trying to de-program Bucky. Then Thor had shown up and asked about the magic, insisting that Bucky was absolutely drenched in it. But Thor isn’t a sorcerer, all he’d been able to tell them was that there was magic in Bucky - ‘like a vine choking a tree’ had been his metaphor - and that whatever it was, he hadn’t seen anything like it on Asgard. Thor had been able to introduce them to Dr. Strange, however, who’d done quite a bit of sanctimonious lecturing and mystical hand-waving until Bucky almost bit his nose off - another thing that had been horrifying at the time, but now, almost a year later, is pretty hilarious and maybe a little justified, not that Steve will  _ ever  _ say that aloud. Then Strange had given Steve Matt’s number - how Strange got Matt’s number, Steve still doesn’t know because Matt insists they’ve never met - and  _ that _ had finally been progress.

Matt was reluctant to help at first, reluctant to even admit that he  _ could  _ help. Steve doesn’t really blame him - he wouldn’t really want  _ part demon _ to be listed in his bio either, though Matt’s version of it is apparently genetic in someway, not forced on him by horrific and twisted torture like Bucky. But at the time, Steve had been desperate bordering on something that went beyond desperate until he felt like he didn’t really have a choice. So he’d pushed - if he’s honest with himself, he’d pushed hard enough to come dangerously close to crossing some lines - but Natasha and the team had been there to hold him in check, and Matt had eventually given in. Sometimes, on bad nights when the nightmares are keeping Steve awake anyway, he wonders if he did the wrong thing, if maybe he should have left Matt alone and found another way. But it’s been over a year now, a year of working together and Bucky making an exponential amount of measurable progress. A year during which they, for the most part, settled into a fairly comfortable, semi-stable pattern, and Steve’s pretty sure that Matt doesn’t regret getting involved. Matt seems to like Steve and Bucky well enough, seems to enjoy their sessions together - which is both a relief and a little bit flattering, if Steve’s honest. Steve hopes that there’s at least some level of mutual benefit going on here, and he’s pretty sure that there is, even if it isn’t completely balanced.

“Fair enough,” Matt agrees easily - again, unsurprised. “Would you get the knife?”

Steve nods, remembering to add verbal confirmation only a fraction of a second later. “Yeah,” he confirms. He squeezes Bucky’s shoulder one more time - probably doing more to reassure himself than Bucky - before moving away to the coffee table where he has the knife prepped and ready to go. It isn’t a fancy knife, nothing special about it; it’s standard issue, grabbed out of the general Avengers armory the first time Matt had asked for one and Steve had held onto it without thinking about it until it became the dedicated knife for this purpose out of habit rather than any real significance. Steve keeps it clean, sharp, and sterilized, stored neatly away in the special chest where he keeps the other tools they use for situations like this. 

By now, Matt has finished unbuttoning his shirt - Steve notes distractedly and with some relief that there don’t seem to be any new bruises, just the last fading traces of the ones that had been there two weeks ago when Matt had last come over. Steve lets his hand linger when he hands Matt the knife; he likes Matt’s hands, likes the calluses, the slight swelling of boxer’s knuckles. Matt smiles, he knows what Steve is doing and he doesn’t seem to mind. “Now Bucky,” Matt says, turning back to the kneeling man as Steve returns to his position holding Bucky’s shoulders from behind, “you know how this works.” Matt unsheathes the knife deftly, tossing the sheath back down on the coffee table - he never misses. Steve understands, at least partially, how Matt’s powers work, but he never fails to be amazed by them. “Are you going to behave?”

Matt waits, the knife balanced carefully in his hand. Bucky is trembling, just slightly, under Steve’s touch and his eyes are locked on the knife, but it isn’t fear, Steve knows that. It’s hunger. Bucky does know how this works, and he  _ wants _ it.

“I need a verbal answer,” Matt reminds him. His voice has taken on an edge - just a mild one, nothing like the way it can, and probably will, get before they’re done with this - but it’s no longer as placid and affable as it had been when he’d arrived. 

A shiver runs up the length of Bucky’s spine and he licks his lips. “Yes,” he says finally, his voice rough around the edges and heavy with Russian - Steve doesn’t know why Bucky’s voice does that, but it’s a convenient warning sign. The thicker the accent, the more dangerous - the more  _ demonic  _ \- Bucky is. “I will behave,” he confirms. Then he licks his lips again, leaning forward slightly, waiting.

“Good.” Matt’s smiling that sweet, innocent smile again, even as he lifts the knife and presses the blade against his own skin. He makes a single, smooth cut in between his fourth and fifth ribs and just to the left of his sternum - there had already been a scar there when they’d started this, which Steve’s never asked about, but he always makes the cut in the same place. It’s always smooth, always precise, and the scar gets deeper but it never gets bigger.

The scent of blood hits Steve’s nose almost immediately, and it must hit Bucky’s the same because Bucky makes a low, animal sound, like a whine. His silent, hunched up sulk is gone, replaced by eager anticipation. Steve tightens his grip, the cold flesh of Bucky’s shoulder just slightly too stiff for natural human skin under his fingers, and Bucky strains a little bit against him - not unlike a dog tugging at a leash. Bucky is practically drooling, his eyes riveted to the slow well of blood that is bubbling up around the edges of the cut Matt had made.

But Steve maintains his grip, and Matt holds back, just for a few extra seconds. “Patience,” Matt warns, but his lips are twitching, a note of teasing in his voice. Bucky makes an unhappy, impatient sound, a fine tremor running through his body. Matt raises an eyebrow and Bucky makes a noise that isn’t any human language Steve has ever heard, but somehow is an effective communication between Matt and Bucky’s demon side. Whatever Bucky had “said”, it makes Matt laugh, but it also has what was presumably Bucky’s desired effect because Matt steps forward. He closes the distance between them and Steve loosens his grip on Bucky’s shoulders enough for Bucky to surge up, the muscles of his core and thighs bunching to lift him up high enough to reach the cut on Matt’s chest.

Matt reaches for Bucky’s face, his fingers curling around Bucky’s cheek and chin then sliding back into Bucky’s hair as he guides Bucky’s head in. There’s a wet slurping suction sound as Bucky’s mouth finds the cut, and maybe it should be a little gross, but somehow it isn’t. Matt keeps his hand in Bucky’s hair, cupping the back of his head in a way that’s distinctly tender. Steve watches with a sort of fascination as Matt’s fingers curl and stroke through the strangled strands of Bucky’s hair, holding Bucky’s lips to the cut as Bucky drinks greedly. What’s even more amazing is the expression on Matt’s face - it isn’t pain, it’s the opposite somehow. Not quite bliss, but something soft and gentle, almost nurturing, something beatific. Together they almost look like a Renaissance painting, a supplicant at the feet of a saint and watching them makes Steve’s cheeks heat while his heart speeds up.

It feels both like an eternity and… and nothing. Not enough. Then Matt is using his grip on Bucky’s hair to pull him back. Bucky’s lips are ruby red and spread into a lazy grin as Matt pulls his head back at a sharp angle, exposing the long column of Bucky’s neck - and fuck, Steve’s sweatpants are starting to feel a little tight already.

Matt’s grin almost matches Bucky’s, his face turned in Bucky’s direction, even as he tugs on Bucky’s hair hard enough to make Bucky grunt - a sort of perversely pleased sound that does nothing to alleviate the situation growing in Steve’s pants. “Now Bucky, are you going to be a good boy?” Matt asks, and there’s still an edge of teasing to his tone but there’s something else too, something darker and commanding that makes Bucky shiver.

Bucky lets out a low growl, the sound pulled taut and deep by the angle to which his neck is being stretched. His eyes are still dark, still vicious and hungry, but it isn’t just the wild, animal rage of before. It’s as though the night sky of his irises have been lit up by glittering stars of intelligence and desire. Matt gives Bucky’s head a little shake and Bucky lets out a low, throaty laugh, blood stained teeth flashing in a grin as sharp as the knife. “Are you going to make me?” he challenges.

“If I have to,” Matt answers, his voice remaining level and calm, refusing to take the bait. Bucky laughs again, clearly delighted by the idea. “But first, you’re neglecting Steve.” Matt’s tone is distinctly chiding, despite his smile.

Bucky’s head turns toward Steve like a hound taking a scent, entirely disregarding the way he has to pull against Matt’s hold on his hair to do it. Maybe the blood on Bucky’s teeth and the inhuman glimmer in his eyes should put Steve off, but Steve’s gotten surprisingly used to it, and underneath it all it’s  _ Bucky _ , which is all Steve has ever really needed. “Hey Buck,” Steve says, unable to help a crooked grin.

Bucky lurches forward but is held back by Matt’s hand still in his hair. A low whining sound makes the muscles in Bucky’s neck flex and tighten. He looks from Steve back over his shoulder toward Matt. He makes another indecipherable sound - words that aren’t words but sound like a question. In response, Matt holds up the knife, flipping it deftly in his hand to offer Steve the hilt.

It takes Steve a fraction of a second to hastily strip off his t-shirt and toss it aside before he takes the knife, quickly wiping the blade off on the towel he’d set on the coffee table for precisely that purpose - Matt’s blood is clean, and neither Bucky nor Steve can catch or carry any diseases, but it’s habit more than anything. “I’ve got him,” Steve says, moving forward to take a grip of Bucky’s shoulder again. 

Matt nods, releasing Bucky’s hair and moving aside. He perches on the edge of the coffee table, feeling his way through the antiseptic wipe, tape, and gauze Steve had set out for him. His job isn’t done, he’s still radiating a mild aura of command and Steve can tell by the tilt of Bucky’s shoulders that Bucky remains keenly aware of Matt. 

But most of Bucky’s attention is on Steve, his gaze like a weight boring itself into Steve. Steve’s grasp on Bucky’s shoulder is limp at best; really only there for show anyway, it’s not as though Bucky is going to go anywhere. Except toward Steve. The bare skin of his knees rustle the fibers of the thick carpet as he shuffles in Steve’s direction, the defined muscles of his chest and shoulders accentuated by the way his arms are drawn back behind him by the restraints. But despite those restraints, there is a raw, almost overwhelming power to Bucky. It’s isn’t just his impressive muscles, not his physique or even the magic that enhances his left arm to a strength that can almost out do Steve’s own. It’s in his gaze, in the tilt of his lips and glimmer in his eyes. He comes to a stop right in front of Steve, close enough for his breath to ghost hot and wet across the already slightly damp front of Steve’s sweats.

“Remember to ask nicely,” Matt says casually as he tapes gauze over the cut on his chest. His body is loose, relaxed, but his tone is not one to be ignored.

Bucky’s eyes flick up to Steve’s face, and looking down into his gaze feels like falling into the Marianas Trench. He licks his lips, still red with blood and slightly swollen. “Please,” he says, his voice little more than a Russian-tinted whisper and yet it’s still almost enough to bring Steve to his knees. Bucky may be in restraints, but he has Steve’s heart so firmly in his grasp-

Matt has stopped ministering first aid to himself, and even though his face is only half tilted toward them Steve knows they have Matt’s full attention. Matt doesn’t actually move, but there’s an almost imperceptible coiling, bracing himself, ready to act if Steve needs him. It wouldn’t be the first time, something about Bucky drawing Steve in, tearing apart the power dynamic they’ve worked so hard to build, breaking the limitations that keep Bucky  _ safe _ into shreds. 

But Steve reels himself back in, firms up both his knees and his willpower. He is Bucky’s, through and through, but Bucky is also  _ his _ and that’s the dynamic that he needs to focus on right now. Because Bucky can’t control himself, not now, not when the demon is so close to the surface, so he needs Steve - and Matt - to be in control for him. And Steve will do that. Steve will do anything for  _ his  _ Bucky.

Steve tightens his grip on the hilt of the knife, the handle still warm from when Matt had held it. The blade is wicked sharp, honed to a perfect edge, and Steve doesn’t break eye contact with Bucky as he lowers it to press against his own heated skin. He makes a small cut, almost identical to Matt’s - though Steve has no scar to mark the place, no matter how many times they do this Steve will never have a scar to prove it - and instantly feels the warm rush of blood rising to the surface. 

Bucky makes a low, throaty sound, trying to dive right in almost before Steve has even moved the knife out of the way. Steve catches Bucky just in time, grabbing him by the back of his neck and holding him so that his lips hover only a scant inch away from the oozing cut. Bucky squirms unhappily, but he doesn’t break out of Steve’s hold - which he could easily do if he really wanted to. His breath is sharp and hot, exhaled through his nose in a way that makes goose pimples ripple over the skin around the edges of the cut. “ _ Please _ ,” Bucky repeats, his voice lower, throatier and urgent.

Steve doesn’t release the back of Bucky’s neck, but he does use his grip to guide Bucky forward. Not unlike Matt had done, Steve holds onto Bucky, guiding and controlling his movements, holding him in places as Bucky’s lips seal around the small wound and start to suck. It had been an unnerving sensation the first time they had done it - and at least the next fifteen after that - in part because of the little voice in the back of Steve’s brain that’s whispering how weird, how fucked up this objectively is, and in part because it’s just biologically  _ strange _ to have a person sucking your blood out of you.

But it’s working. With every second the passes, every flex of the muscles in Bucky’s throat, Steve can feel the tension in Bucky drain away, can feel Bucky’s shoulders loosen and go languid. He makes a low humming sound in his throat, the noise muffled by Steve’s skin, his eyes sliding closed with contentment.

Steve counts the seconds carefully - just as he knows Matt had done, for all that Steve had been too distracted to mind the count during Matt’s turn - and when he hits sixty his fingers tighten around the nape of Bucky’s neck and haul him backwards. Bucky complains in low, gutteral whines, just as he had done with Matt, but Steve doesn’t relent; no matter what magical benefits they gain from the exchange of blood, Bucky’s stomach is still human and swallowing too much of it will still make him sick. 

For all his complaints, Bucky doesn’t actually resist anyway, he’s too loose for that, like someone who has just taken a big hit of their favorite drug. He blinks up at Steve, his eyes now seeming almost iridescent through the film of his eyelashes. The pink tip of Bucky’s tongue darts out to lap up a small smear of blood hanging at the corner of his lips and Steve can’t look away, can’t quite seem to breathe even until Matt’s voice cuts through them both and breaks the spell.

He does the thing again, making a sound that isn’t a word but Steve knows conveys meaning that he just can’t understand, but then he follows it with normal, human words, tone level but gilded with command. “It’s time to talk about why you attacked Tony earlier,” Matt says, reminding them all of why they’re here, why they’re doing this today.

Bucky’s gaze cuts sharply sideways toward Matt, and Steve has the gut sense that if there had been a piece of fabric between them the path of Bucky’s eyes through it would have turned it to ribbons. The languidness isn’t completely gone, but there’s a coiling in Bucky’s muscles again, a rage back to simmering in the line of his shoulders and the tight lines of his mouth. Matt doesn’t seem particularly bothered, though his shoulders straighten just a fraction and something in his face hardens. 

Positioning is important for this; it’s something about using body language and space to reinforce the dynamic between them. Which is why Steve uses the grip he still has on the scruff of Bucky’s neck to drag him over the short distance so that he’s kneeling directly in front of Matt. When Bucky’s teeth click together and the muscles in his jaw twitch but he doesn’t open his mouth to say anything, Matt stands, something in his posture making physical size irrelevant as he looms over Bucky. “We’re waiting,” Matt says, firm and prompting.

Bucky looks away from Matt, his gaze shifting down and to the side as he makes a sound like he’s about to spit; he doesn’t, which Steve appreciates. “I did not hurt him,” he says, the Russian accent - if anything - stronger than ever, roughening the edges of every letter. “It was a warning shot only.”

“That doesn’t make it acceptable,” Matt says sternly. “Tony is a friend. An ally. And you attacked him. Why?”

There’s a low rumble in Bucky’s throat and his pale left hand curls into a fist, the muscles under that too stiff skin shifting in a way that makes the faux-leather padding on the cuffs creak ominously. “He touched what is not his,” Bucky snarls.

Steve blinks, internally replaying the scene from the kitchen earlier, trying to figure out what Bucky is talking about. He hadn’t noticed anything strange at the time, just the normal bustle that inherently happens with any three or more residents of the Tower are trying to use the kitchen at the same time. Steve had been making himself and Bucky some sandwiches. Bucky had been sitting at the kitchen table, with Clint and Natasha sitting at the other end; all four of them fresh from the gym. Natasha was munching on some toast and Clint was digging into a massive bowl of yogurt. That’s where the spoon had come from, Steve realizes distantly - it hadn’t even occurred to him to wonder at the time - Bucky had undoubtedly snatched it out of Clint’s hand to launch it at Tony’s head. Tony had burst in, ripe and frazzled from what he calls ‘a science bender’ in his lab, and started accosting the coffee machine. In his hast, Tony had spilled some of the coffee. He’d had to reach around Steve to get to the dish towel and he’d-

Steve laughs. Steve laughs so abruptly and so hard that he has to bend over double and brace his hands on his knees. It’s not funny, really, nothing about the situation has actually changed, Bucky still did something dangerous, still could have hurt Tony very badly and it’s still very much not okay. But fuck, it’s also hilarious. 

When Steve finally regains control of himself, Matt is looking like he isn’t sure whether to be amused or worried while Bucky is grumbling discontentedly as though he’s offended by Steve’s levity. “I’m sorry,” Steve wheezes, even though he isn’t really. “It’s just… he touched my butt. Tony-... he didn’t even  _ grope _ me - which, Tony, so he definitely could have been - but he was reaching around me and he  _ accidentally _ -”

Comprehension dawns across Matt’s face and he chuckles - just a small, restrained sound as he shakes his head.

Bucky, on the other hands, continues to be thoroughly unamused. “You are not his!” Bucky snarls, his whole body straining toward Steve with the force of his shout.

“He wasn’t-” Steve protests, though it’s feeble and ineffective thanks the chuckles still brewing in his chest. “It was an accident, Bucky. He didn’t mean anything by it.” Bucky still looks displeased and Steve huffs. “Look, I will talk to Tony about keeping his hands to himself. But you attacking him because you’re  _ jealous _ is not acceptable. Ever.” 

“Steve’s right,” Matt confirms. He shifts his weight, legs braced wide and strong; it’s just a slight adjustment, but it somehow significantly increases his air of authority and makes Bucky settle back on his haunches with a stiff, straight spine. “You know the rules about attacking allies, and you broke them. Later, you and Steve will have to talk about your jealousy and how you should handle it next time it comes up. You’ll probably have to come up with an appropriate apology for Tony as well. But right now, we’re going to deal with the consequences of you breaking the rules.”

That draws Bucky’s full attention. He inhales a sharp breath that makes his entire chest flex and expand, his eyes riveted on Matt. “Punishment,” Bucky says, a shiver of anticipation in his voice. 

Initially, Steve had refused to allow words like that into their sessions, to allow words like that anywhere near Bucky at all. But after over a year of therapy - both psychologic and magical - careful negotiations, and a hell of a lot of talking, Steve is acceptably reassured that Bucky - not just Bucky’s demonic side, but  _ all _ of Bucky - is genuinely consenting to everything that they do. There’s no fear in Bucky’s voice, no trepidation or worry, but rather genuine excitement; every part of Bucky’s brain knows that he can say no, that with a single word Steve will take off the cuffs and they’ll deal with this situation in another way, that whatever ‘punishment’ Matt is about to declare can be refused, and that Matt won’t suggest anything that will actually cause Bucky harm anyway. It’s taken a lot of work to get where they are, and neither Matt nor Steve would allow it to continue if there was even the slightest whiff of genuine distress from Bucky.

“Right. Punishment,” Matt confirms. He’s discarded his shirt entirely, leaving it on the coffee table next to the first aid kit. It’s admittedly distracting, the sight of all that taut muscle decorated with a smattering of scars and half healed bruises, all leading down to the slim v of his hips, still contained by the waistband of his pants. Matt’s movements are steady and sure as he moves over to the corner of the room where an old steamer trunk sits innocuously out of the way; it’s been retrofitted with a biometric lock that will open only for Steve, Bucky, and Matt. Matt crouches, resting easily on the balls of his feet as he unlocks the trunk and starts feeling carefully around inside. 

Steve tries not to stare too hard at Matt’s ass - which Steve currently has the perfect view to do - and instead focuses his attention on Bucky, who is practically vibrating. Steve isn’t sure Bucky could actually be classified as a masochist back in the day, before the war, but he’d always been down for a rough tumble. They’d never talked about it, about how sometimes during the boiling heat of Brooklyn summers tempers would bubble over, how sometimes Bucky would pick a fight with Steve, not  _ about  _ anything, just a fight for the sake of fighting. It was a game, a way of releasing pressure, Bucky taunting Steve until Steve brought Bucky to his knees. 

In many ways, this is still a game, though the stakes are much higher. It isn’t always like this, isn’t always anger and ‘punishment’ and thick tension that Bucky needs help to release. They have a regular schedule for Matt to come over, and most of the time now it’s calm, with no ‘situation’ to handle. Bucky - when he’s  _ Bucky _ \- calls it ‘maintenance’, his demonic-side calls it ‘playtime’ with a crooked grin and glittering eyes; Matt usually just shrugs and gives a self-deprecating smile and talks about the importance of giving both sides of Bucky a safe environment to release whatever tension he’s carrying. Frankly, Steve doesn’t care what it’s called, as long as it works.

Bucky’s eyes are locked on Matt, and Steve follows suit as Matt stands, letting the lid of the steamer trunk fall closed with a soft thunk. In Matt’s strong hands is a slender quarter inch bamboo switch with a soft leather handle; it’s just one of a vast array of floggers and switches, mixed with restraints, dildos, and all kinds of other toys contained in the trunk. Bucky had picked out most of it, with some input from Matt and a lot of Steve trying not to blush out of his goddamned skin. If Bucky wasn’t vibrating before, he is now, his arms flexing and straining in the restraints, his breathing deep but fast and hungry, and the long column of his throat working as he swallows in anticipation.

If Steve had any doubts, Bucky’s reaction to the sight of the switch immediately banishes them.

“Do you need to be tied down?” Matt asks, a fond note of amusement in his voice around the edges of the command. He’s moved back over to them again and reaches out, the fingers of his free hand finding and tracing the curve of Bucky’s sharp cheekbone and down to take a firm grip of Bucky’s chin. “Or are you going to be a good boy and hold still for me?”

Bucky shifts, color rising up the trim line of his chest and into his cheeks. He fidgets, just a little, a subtle shift of his weight from one knee to the other and back again. His eyes dart from the switch up to Matt’s face, back down at the switch, and then sideways toward Steve. “Steve,” he says, like the name alone is an entire sentence. And, Steve supposes, in this context it is because Matt nods and turns his face toward Steve expectantly.

Steve has to clear his throat a bit to unstick it and remembers that he can’t just nod. “Yeah,” he agrees, “I’ll hold him.”

“Good. Get into position.” Matt rubs a hand, slow and meticulous along the length of the switch, which serves the dual purpose of both checking the bamboo for splits and splinters and exponentially multiplying Steve and Bucky’s mutual levels of arousal. 

Immediately Bucky starts to shuffle around on his knees. It takes a bit of group effort, but they get Bucky resituated in the middle of the rug, with plenty of room for Matt to operate behind him and Steve standing just in front. Bucky’s muscles are taut with anticipation, his chest all chiseled definition thanks to the angle of his restrained wrists and finely sprinkled with the beginning sheen of sweat. Bucky’s gaze flicks up to meet Steve’s, and his eyes are still the dark abyss-blue of the demon, but there’s a glimmer of  _ Steve’s  _ Bucky there too, in the curl at the corners of Bucky’s lips and the excited flush of his cheeks.

“Lookin’ good down there, doll,” Steve murmurs, something about having Bucky on his knees in front of him bringing out the old Brooklyn in his voice. He cups Bucky’s cheek - not unlike Matt had done moments before, but Steve just lets his fingers linger there, brushing through the prickly stubble of Bucky’s beard and stroking the soft skin underneath.

Bucky huffs out a sound that’s almost a laugh and he tilts his face into the cup of Steve’s palm, his eyes falling to half mast as he leans into the touch. Bucky sways forward a little on his knees, but Steve reaches out with his other hand to grab Bucky’s shoulder and hold him in place.

“Up,” Matt commands, tapping the soft undercurve of Bucky’s ass lightly to punctuate his point.

Bucky’s breath goes out in a sharp hiss and his thighs immediately bunch to lift him up off of his haunches. It brings Bucky’s face up so that it’s just above the level of Steve’s crotch, which is an unfair level of distracting. Steve tightens his grip, holding Bucky’s shoulders with both hands, fingers digging in just enough to hold Bucky immobile as long as Bucky doesn’t make any serious attempts to move.

Matt just readies himself behind Bucky, balancing his weight evenly, the leather handle of the switch gripped loosely in the curl of his calloused fingers. “Now Bucky, before we begin, I need you to tell me why you are being punished,” Matt says, his voice level and pointed.

Bucky makes an impatient sound low in his throat. “Because I threw a spoon past Tony Stark’s head,” he recites with exaggerated patience.

“And?” Matt prompts, brushing the tip of the switch over the curve of Bucky’s ass, part taunting and part encouragement. 

Steve only sees the way Bucky’s eyes  _ almost _ roll only because he’s studying Bucky’s face minutely. It isn’t that Bucky refuses to take the situation seriously, it’s just that he is  _ very _ ready to get on with the proceedings. “And that was bad because Tony is an ally so I shouldn’t throw things at him,” Bucky huffs. “Also it was an overreaction and Tony didn’t intentionally grope my boyfriend’s ass.” Bucky pauses, then adds in a muttered, venomous breath, “ _ this time _ .”

Steve has to work very hard not to laugh inappropriately again, but in his defense, Matt’s lips are twitching a little bit too. “Correct,” Matt allows, and Steve is pretty sure Bucky can’t hear the barely contained amusement that is written all over Matt’s face. “So what are we doing about it?”

Bucky licks his lips and damn near wiggles. “Punishment,” he says.

Not that this ‘punishment’ is going to actually teach Bucky any kind of lesson. The actual solution to this morning’s problem will be handled by consulting with some number of the literal battalion of people who hold degrees ranging from psychology to neuroscience to, well, magic, depending on how loosely you take the term ‘degree’ to discuss Bucky’s new violent jealousy streak and coping mechanisms to deal with it. But that is a problem for later. Tomorrow, probably, Steve will start making the calls. Today, they are doing this, playing the ‘punishment’ game which in reality is roughly seventy-five percent about appeasing Bucky’s demon side… and, admittedly, twenty-five percent just about fun for all three of them.

Still, Matt’s face has gone very serious, settling into his role as he lets the end of the switch rest lightly on the taut swell of Bucky’s ass. “We’re going to start with ten,” Matt instructs sternly. “You’re going to count them for me.”

Bucky shivers, his whole body tightening in anticipation of what’s to come. “Yes sir,” he says, his voice low and husky, focused now and ready. 

Steve tightens his grip.

Matt draws back the switch, and then brings it down across the fleshy curve of Bucky’s ass with a satisfying  _ thwack _ . Bucky’s whole body jerks, a low hiss escaping from between his clenched teeth. Steve’s eyes are riveted to the switch in Matt’s hands, following its trajectory almost as though mesmerized; Steve trusts Matt, knows that Matt has never once missed his aim or miscalculated the amount of force that Bucky could take, but it’s still instinct to watch at least the first few blows.

“Count,” Matt reminds and Steve can’t help but to notice the way the authority in Matt’s voice has gone a little bit deeper, a little bit rough around the edges. 

“One,” Bucky counts obediently around a shaky breath. “Thank you, sir,” he adds, with a genuine upward curl of his lips. 

Matt lifts the switch a second time, bringing it back down in precisely the same spot and eliciting a choked groan from Bucky’s throat. Matt sets up a steady rhythm, laying neat steady stripes across the surface of Bucky’s ass and pausing in between just long enough for Bucky to gasp out his count. 

Bucky is breathless when they hit number ten, his eyes glittering with a mix of delight and contained tears. Matt declares that they’re going to do ten more, and Bucky whines but follows it immediately with an affirmative, “yes sir.”

Steve maintains his firm grip on Bucky’s shoulders, keeping Bucky still and preventing him from moving away from Matt’s punishing blows. Steve has to admit - if only in the privacy of his own mind - that it’s a beautiful sight, Matt’s steady, precise blows landing one after another on Bucky’s soft skin, gradually turning it from it’s normal pale white color to pink, to red, and slowly deepening to purple. The rest of Bucky is flushing too, blood rushing through his veins to spread a bright, heated flush over his skin from navel to scalp - all except for his left arm, which remains unnervingly pale.

By the thirteenth blow, tears have begun to silently leak down Bucky’s cheeks and he’s swaying slightly in Steve’s grip. By the eighteenth, Bucky’s whole face is soaked and he has to keep his count by gasping the words out around choked, wet sobs. With each blow he sways in closer to Steve, his breath hot and damp against the front of Steve’s sweatpants. Steve is painfully hard and - Steve’s eyes dip down almost involuntarily for a quick check - so is Bucky. 

When they hit twenty, Matt pauses long enough to lean in and run a gentle, soothing hand over the tight and straining muscles of Bucky’s upper back. “You’re doing so well,” Matt murmurs, a low and sincere word of praise. “So obedient. Such a good boy for me. I’m proud of you. But we aren’t quite done yet. We’re going to do five more.”

Bucky makes a sound that’s even more wrecked than any he’d made in response to the switch. Something in him releases and it’s a little bit like a puppet getting its strings cut the way his shoulders slump and he just drops forward to press his face into Steve’s stomach. He nuzzles in, rubbing his inflamed cheek against the equally heating skin off Steve’s lower stomach and worn waistband of Steve’s sweatpants. If it weren’t for the restraints, Steve’s fairly certain that Bucky would be wrapping his arms around Steve’s waist and clinging to him like Steve is his own personal teddy bear.

“I need consent,” Matt persists. His hand slides up higher, threading through the tangled curls of Bucky’s hair where it falls sweaty and damp against the nape of his neck. “You can give me five more, can’t you?” he murmurs, low and enticing.

Bucky swallows thickly, his nose digging into Steve’s abdomen as he nods in short, jerky bursts. “Yes sir,” he agrees huskily, “five more.”

“Good boy,” Matt praises, petting the nape of Bucky’s neck once more before returning to position.

Bucky keeps his face buried against Steve’s stomach, and Steve doesn’t try to push him away. Bucky’s shaking, a fine tremor starting where his thighs are straining to hold him in position and spreading up through his shoulders and all the way into the quiver of his voice as he forces out the words to keep the count.

Matt lands the twenty-fifth blow with a sharp, decisive snap against Bucky’s well striped ass that is rapidly turning from purple to black in places. Bucky lets out a low wail that’s barely muffled by Steve’s stomach, his whole body jerking against Steve’s grip and threatening to knock Steve over so that Steve has to hastily brace his feet against the force of Bucky pressing into him.

But Bucky is still hard, his cock steadily leaking a small, damp pool onto the rug as he gasps in deep, shaking breaths. When he recovers himself enough to lift his wet face from Steve’s stomach, he turns his gaze up to meet Steve’s and his eyes are glittering just as much with lust as they are with tears.

Steve… agrees, enthusiastically, with everything that Bucky’s expression conveys. “Bedroom,” he says hoarsely, and it’s sort of a question except for how it’s not.

“Please,” Bucky rasps.

Steve keeps one hand on Bucky’s shoulder to support him - without which, he’s fairly certain, Bucky would fall over - but he lifts his other hand to cup Bucky’s cheek, his thumb rubbing over wet, flushed cheeks tenderly. “You’re so beautiful, babe,” he murmurs, relishing in the way a shiver curls in a slow wave up Bucky’s spine in response. 

Steve isn’t sure how long he wastes staring soulfully into Bucky’s eyes, but his attention is abruptly jerked away by Matt pointedly clearing his throat. “I think that’s my cue to leave,” Matt says wryly. At some point while Steve was distracted by Bucky’s gorgeous face, Matt had put away the switch, tidily cleaned up the first aid supplies, and begun putting his shirt back on.

Bucky’s eyes dart sideways toward Matt, and Steve doesn’t need to hear the unhappy sound he makes to guess what Bucky’s thinking. A thought with which Steve finds himself in full agreement.

He keeps his hand on Bucky’s shoulder, but shuffles around behind him to press the thumb of his other hand against the biometric lock on the cuffs around Bucky’s ankles - he leaves the cuffs on Bucky’s wrists for now. Then he digs his hands into Bucky’s armpits and uses the grip as leverage to hoist Bucky to his feet. Bucky groans and shakes a little, the muscles in his thighs trembling and his ass clenching as he sways on his feet but Steve holds him up until he’s sure the blood has spread all the way back into Bucky’s extremities and Bucky isn’t in danger of falling over again.

Matt, seemingly oblivious, has half buttoned his shirt and is reaching for his tie when Bucky lurches over to him. Bucky pauses for just a fraction of a second - just long enough to make sure Matt has processed his presence - before pressing his way in and pressing his lips against Matt’s. Matt blinks - presumably an ingrained reflex that he’s never lost - but his hands move automatically to grip Bucky’s biceps.

“Stay,” Bucky whispers, his lips still ghosting against Matt’s as he leans his entire upper body into Matt’s personal space.

Matt swallows, his head tilting in Steve’s direction. Steve is absolutely certain that Matt can smell his arousal, can hear exactly how on board with Bucky’s plan Steve is by the way Steve’s heart is racing. But Steve clears his throat and speaks up anyway, “you’re always welcome,” he confirms. These sessions don’t always end in sex, and when they do, Matt doesn’t always stay. As far as Steve is concerned, the invitation is always open - he and Bucky have talked about it, about how very much they both enjoy when Matt does stick around to join them in the bedroom - but he always leaves it to Bucky to decide whether he wants to explicitly ask Matt to stay on any given day. Someday, Steve might take the initiative, might invite Matt to stick around for more than a romp in the sheets - he and Bucky have talked about that too, they just aren’t sure if Matt is interested in agreeing to it and they’re reluctant to risk the relationship they already have with Matt. Quietly, internally, Steve is waiting -  _ hoping _ \- for the day when Matt is the one to ask if he can stay. But for now, all parties seem to be content to leave the decision in Bucky’s hands.

Because when Bucky does ask, Matt never says no. He considers it, Steve can see the hesitation, the consideration flickering across Matt’s soft, expressive face. But he always gives in, always gives a small, shy smile and nods as he lets Bucky lead the way to the bedroom with Steve trailing along eagerly behind.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now with actual porn!
> 
> This was originally part of the plan, but I didn't end up having time to finish it before posting. So, here it is, late but hopefully worth the wait.

Matt had sensed Bucky approaching him, felt the shift in the air, smelt the residue of Bucky’s sweat and tears. He’d forced himself to stay focused on putting his shirt back on, forced himself not to expect, not to hope-

But Bucky kissed him. And now they’re in Bucky and Steve’s bedroom.

Everytime he comes to the Tower for a session, Matt tells himself not to expect anything else, not to even consider it as a possibility. Steve came to him because he needed help for Bucky, and really, Matt should feel lucky that he can now consider Steve and Bucky to be friends. He shouldn’t - and doesn’t - expect anything else.

But fuck does he want it. 

Bucky is still hovering in front of him, close enough that Matt is a little worried about tripping over him. But even still dazed from their session and with his arms still restrained behind his back, Bucky is lithe and graceful, always keeping just a fraction of a step ahead of Matt as he leads the way into the bedroom with hard, eager kisses. 

Steve is bringing up the rear, a perfect match to Bucky in every way. But it’s Matt he currently has his hands on, drawing Matt’s shirt down off his shoulders and tossing it aside - Matt will probably have to ask either Steve or Bucky to help him find it again later, but it’s hard to care too much about that when Bucky’s teeth are digging into the sensitive skin of Matt’s neck. Then Steve’s hands are fumbling for Matt’s belt, taking the opportunity to press himself up against Matt’s back. Steve hooks his chin over Matt’s shoulder - presumably to give himself a better view of his own efforts to divest Matt of his pants - and Steve’s bare chest is firm, his skin several degrees hotter than a standard human. Matt finds himself reaching back to thread his fingers through Steve’s hair - soft and silky despite the gel he uses to slick it back.

Steve makes short work of Matt’s belt and moves on to his fly. But then his attention is drawn away from the task at hand; Matt can hear Steve and Bucky kissing over him, Steve’s chin still hooked over Matt’s shoulder. It’s wet and a little desperate, and maybe it should feel uncomfortable to know that he’s an outsider pinned between these two men who have been so deeply in love for the better part of a century, but to the contrary, it’s thrilling and honestly? It’s the safest Matt has ever felt. In a weird way, it’s almost like they’re kissing  _ through _ Matt, instead of around him.

Because that’s just how Steve and Bucky  _ are _ . No matter how desperate and wound up they are, no matter where the balance lies between Bucky and his demonic side. No matter what, if they invite Matt to say they never let him feel like an outsider, or an intruder, not for a second. Even when Bucky whispers hoarsely, “Stevie, I need you inside me,” and Matt can feel the way those words make Steve’s heart rate ramp up, they’re still somehow including Matt. Steve’s hands are still on Matt’s pants, finally finishing the job of opening the fly and shoving them down. There’s a tricky moment where Matt almost forgets step out of his shoes and the three of them end up landing on the bed a little harder than they’d meant to.

But as soon as they’re horizontal, Steve makes short work of stripping Matt out of the last vestiges of his clothes. Steve had ditched his own sweatpants somewhere along the way - back in the living room, for all Matt knows thanks to the way Bucky had kept him distracted. And then Matt is surrounded by soft cotton sheets and hard, warm bodies. It’s disorienting, but just for a second before Bucky is kissing them; soft lips and scratchy stubble, the warm weight of his body grounding Matt, anchoring him to the bed.

Bucky is on his knees, hovering over Matt. His knees are just slightly pinching Matt’s hips and he’s bent at the waist so that he can reach Matt’s lips. Matt lifts his hand impulsively, unable to resist the urge to touch Bucky’s chest, to feel the way his abdominals are clenching and trembling with the effort to hold himself in position without his hands.

“Tell me what you want, doll,” Bucky murmurs, and it’s almost hilarious the near perfect mix of Russian and Old Brooklyn in his voice. But it’s good - both objectively and sonically - because it means that Bucky and his demonic side are currently in harmony, balanced. Bucky in control but not fighting with himself.

Matt can feel Steve, a warm presence and the slightly spicy scent of an old fashioned brand of aftershave. He’s rummaging around in the door beside the bed, and Matt doesn’t have to try hard to guess what he’s looking for. Bucky has already made his preference known, and as a general rule Steve all but trips over himself to give Bucky whatever he wants - at least in the bedroom. As soon as Steve finds the right bottle of lube he makes a soft triumphant sound and closes the drawer before climbing up onto the foot of the bed to kneel behind Bucky. Bucky makes a low, eager humming sound in his throat, presumably at Steve’s presence. Matt listens to the soft smacking of lips on flesh, mentally imagining Steve trailing kisses along the curve of Bucky’s spine.

He’s so distracted tracking Steve’s movements, that it takes Matt a minute to remember that Bucky had asked him a question, that he’s  _ part  _ of this rather than just an observer. Not that there’s anywhere else he’d rather be at the moment. His blood is singing in his veins, still hot - literally, his core temperature has increased by at least two degrees - and racing, the thin thread of his own demonic heritage brought to the surface by his efforts to control and guide Bucky. For so long he’d been afraid of that heritage, refusing to acknowledge, let alone use it. Stick had wanted him to use it, insisted that it could make him stronger, better, that it would be helpful in the war to come. But Matt hadn’t wanted it, hadn’t wanted any of it, and he’d learned to be strong without relying on the traces of demonic magic running through his veins. Until Steve had come to him, desperate and pleading, until he’d met Bucky and felt the ravages of a soul torn in two. He’s glad he agreed to help, glad he  _ can _ help, even if it means opening the door to his own less-than-human side.

Staring up at Bucky is an  _ experience _ . He’s beautiful, not that Matt thinks either Steve or Bucky are ready to hear him call it that. Matt has gotten used to the shadow-and-fire world he lives in, used to knowing people as glimmering outlines at best; but Bucky is  _ different _ . Bucky is fire, yes, but of a different kind. Bucky is  _ two _ fires, and when his two halves are working well together he blazes brighter than anyone else Matt has ever met, blazes in colors that don’t even  _ exist _ , a thing that Matt can’t even begin to describe. And it’s amazing.

“Matt?” Steve’s voice floats down at him from somewhere above Bucky. “You okay?”

Matt swallows, forcing his voice to come out clear and level. “Fine,” he reassures. His hands are still on Bucky’s chest, still feeling the twitch and strain of his living muscles. He lets his hands fall lower, moving down to Bucky’s hips and around to grip the firm flesh of his ass; it’s still inflamed from the caning earlier, hot to the touch. “Steve, what color is his ass?” he asks, his lips dragging upward into a smirk. Bucky keens, his whole body shivering under Matt’s touch and Matt can feel a droplet of pre-cum fall from Bucky onto his own stomach.

“Purple, mostly,” Steve answers, “some black where you went hard. And about three different shades of red around the edges.”

Matt’s grin widens and he squeezes - just a little - kneading the bruised flesh between his hands to make Bucky shiver and moan.

“Steve,” Bucky complains, his voice little more than a breathy whine and Steve laughs, low and warm.

“I know, Buck, I’ve got you,” he promises. Steve’s thighs brush up against Matt’s knuckles as he settles himself in behind Bucky and Matt listens to the pop of a plastic cap followed by the thick squelchy glide of good quality lube. Matt knows the second Steve first pushes a finger into Bucky, knows because of the way Bucky’s muscles tense and his body jerks, but also because of the way it makes Bucky’s soul light up, the two halves twisting tighter around each other and both responding to Steve in tandem. Steve’s blood is still inside of Bucky - as is Matt’s - and it works like a leash and an amplifier all at once, drawing both sides of Bucky to them and causing him to respond more keenly than he would with anyone else; it’s a heady sort of power, one that Matt likes a little more than he’s willing to admit to.

Matt relinquishes his grip on Bucky’s ass for now, leaving Steve to it. Instead his hands travel up Bucky’s sides, feeling the rapid rise and fall of his ribcage as he breathes. Matt’s fingers trace the musculature of Bucky’s back - lines that he’s already memorized, that he’d actively committed to memory the first two or three times he’d been invited into Steve and Bucky’s bedroom, when he’d been afraid that he might not get another chance. When he reaches them, Matt pauses to hold Bucky’s hands, still bound tightly behind him. They are clenched into fists, tight enough to make the muscles of his arms and shoulders even more defined than usual, evidence of the effort it takes to contain himself, the strain of holding still and waiting patiently for Steve to finish getting him ready. Matt finds Bucky’s left hand - an easy task, the drastic change in temperature from the rest of his body making it stand out even if nothing else did - and he digs his fingers in, prying open the clenched fist so that he can thread their fingers together.

Bucky makes a choked sound and his body  _ drops _ . He’s careful - even now, after all the strain of not just the past hour but of the whole day, the whole week that had built up to his outburst earlier - not to put too much weight onto Matt, not to risk “crushing” him, no matter that Matt can take more than most humans. But Bucky does give up on holding himself above and as he collapses downward his chest lands on Matt’s chest, his face burying in the meat of Matt’s shoulder as Bucky groans and shakes. His cold fingers are slow to respond, stiff and almost reluctant, but after a beat he curls them around Matt’s fingers and then he’s  _ clinging _ .

Matt presses a soft kiss to the shell of Bucky’s ear now that it’s practically pressed against his lips anyway. “You did good today,” he murmurs, because it’s true, and because he knows it will make Bucky shake and moan again. He rubs his nose into Bucky’s hair, breathing in the heavy scent of sweat laid over the faint tea tree oil and sandalwood shampoo that Bucky and Steve both favor.

“How many fingers?” he asks, knowing that Steve is hard at work down at Bucky’s other end, able to hear how fast Steve’s heart rate is thundering, the musk of lust rapidly over taking all other scents in the room.

“Three,” Bucky answers in a grunt before Steve can open his mouth. “Because Steve won’t  _ hurry the fuck up _ .” The Russian accent has nearly entirely faded, Bucky fully in control, though Matt can still sense his demonic half just beneath the surface. Now it’s just Bucky’s voice, all grumbling impatience that makes both Steve and Matt laugh.

“I’m getting to it,” Steve says, humor and chiding mixed equally in his tone. “I’d say keep your pants on, but we’re a little past that.”

Matt’s left hand is still tangled with Bucky’s, but with his right he feels his way back down Bucky’s body to find a particularly tender spot and give him a pointed pinch. “Keep talking like that and I’ll get the cane back out,” he warns. He isn’t serious, none of them are serious now, and Bucky laughs even as he shivers in response to the pleasure-pain stimulus of Matt’s pinch.

“Don’t make promises unless you’re going to keep them,” he teases, voice low and husky right next to Matt’s ear.

Matt hums noncommittally and goes back to idly feeling his way along Bucky’s body. Bucky is already so overstimulated, their session in the living room mixed with the effect of Steve and Matt’s blood making him hypersensitive, that even the lightest brush of Matt’s fingertips causes Bucky to shiver and moan. It’s kind of satisfying, actually, both because Matt knows that Bucky is thoroughly enjoying it, and because Matt has been on the receiving end of similar treatment, his own hypersensitivity practically turned into a sexual weapon.

After several long minutes of quiet petting and panting, Bucky makes a sound that is both protest and triumph - Matt doesn’t need any help interpreting that. He reaches around, feeling bolder than he normally does - Bucky and Steve may go out of their way to make Matt feel welcome and equal when he visits their bed, but Matt never for a second forgets that he’s a guest here. His fingers trail down the dip of Bucky’s ass to find his hole, careful but eager as he explores, the desire to feel, to ‘see’ with his fingers too strong to resist.. It’s empty of Steve’s fingers - for the moment - slicked wet with a thorough amount of lube and stretched open, waiting for the next step. Matt lets his fingers dance around it, just feeling the edge, the tremor of spasming muscles as Bucky waits and whines for Steve to come back.

Matt listens to the sound of the plastic cap on the lube bottle again. Steve’s heart rate picks up and Matt’s does too, matching the racing pace instinctively as he listens and imagines the sight of Steve slicking up on his own cock. Steve takes a moment longer than necessary and the sound of his hand moving up and down his shaft a few extra times as he spreads on the lube seems to echo in Matt’s ears. There’s a fine, steady tremor running through Bucky’s body between them and Matt feels Bucky’s anticipation almost as though it’s his own, Bucky’s breath wet and ragged against Matt’s neck and his cold left fingers clenched almost painfully tight around Matt’s hand.

Then Steve is moving forward. Matt can feel Steve’s skin, his hand suddenly trapped between Steve and Bucky’s bodies. He should pull away, should move his hand to a less intimate spot, but Steve doesn’t hesitate - even gives an encouraging moan when Matt’s knuckles accidentally brush against the soft, vulnerable skin of Steve’s scrotum. And when Steve pushes his way into Bucky, Matt feels it with his whole body, from the tips of his fingers still resting lightly around the edge of Bucky’s hole, up the stiff, thick line of Bucky’s body, in the way Bucky grips his left hand and sobs into Matt's neck.

Bucky is making low sounds with only a few words peppered in between them;  _ Steve _ and  _ please _ and  _ yes _ and what Matt thinks are the Russian equivalents of those same words. He can feel Bucky’s body shaking harder than ever, and as much as Matt wants to feel - to vicariously experience - the movement of Steve’s cock sliding in and out of Bucky’s ass he pulls his hand away. He pries his left hand free of Bucky’s grip as well so that he can use both arms to wrap around Bucky, to hold him tight and securely in place. Steve is helping, his hands gripping Bucky’s hips with a force that Matt  _ knows  _ will leave bruises since he can practically hear the joints of Steve’s knuckles creaking and the tiny, delicate blood vessels just under the surface of Bucky’s skin splitting.

It’s so beautiful, so overwhelming and mesmerizing, that Matt’s almost entirely forgotten his own arousal. It’s there, his cock full and hard and dribbling pre-cum onto his stomach. But it seems distant, unimportant compared to the thundering-aching-groaning of Steve and Bucky’s bodies above and around him.

Bucky, however, evidently hasn’t forgotten. He’s mouthing hot, wet kisses along the line of Matt’s jaw and neck, down to Matt’s collarbones where the bruises won’t show. There Bucky sets to work, kissing and sucking and biting, the soft flicking of his tongue a sharp contrast to the dig of his teeth as he starts working a cluster of hickies into Matt’s skin. Matt groans, his hips bucking instinctively; he and Bucky are so close, Bucky almost fully laying on Matt’s chest, but Steve is still holding Bucky’s hips, keeping them up and away and leaving a frustratingly empty space between Bucky and Matt’s cocks. There’s nothing but empty air, no friction, no heated flesh or clenching muscles for Matt to thrust into, but that doesn’t stop his hips from trying in response to the sharp nip of Bucky’s teeth.

Matt’s arms tighten around Bucky. He could solve the problem, the currently  _ very _ distant rational part of his mind says, he could reach down and provide both himself and Bucky with the friction they need. But, at the same time, he can’t. He’s stuck on the sensation, the intuition, the dizzying irrational certainty that if he lets go of Bucky they’ll both somehow get lost, fall away from each other in the vastness of metaphysical space. It doesn’t make sense, but there’s too much blood pounding in Matt’s ears - heart beats in triplicate, himself, Steve, and Bucky all rolled together - too much sensory feedback rippling up and down Matt’s body from where Steve’s calves are rubbing against the insides of Matt’s thighs to the heavy weight of Bucky on his chest, the shocking cold of Bucky’s left shoulder digging into him, the bruising suction of Bucky’s mouth. Matt finds he can do nothing but cling to Bucky and breathe, even that a struggle as he gasps and shakes right along with Bucky.

“Stevie,” Bucky says, and it’s a lot of  _ sound _ but barely any  _ word _ , Bucky’s lips still pressed against Matt’s skin. “Need my hands.”

It takes Matt far longer than it should to process what Bucky said - longer than it should to even realize that was  _ language _ \- but evidently Steve had gotten the picture because Matt’s sharp ears pick up on the familiar click of the biometric locks on Bucky’s cuffs opening, followed by the muffled thud of the sturdy metal hitting the mattress. But then Matt can’t process anything else because Bucky’s hands are on him, grasping and eager as though to make up for lost time.

At first Bucky’s hands do a quick but thorough sweep of Matt’s body, like a sped up version of Matt’s own petting from earlier. But Bucky doesn’t dally around before shoving his right hand down in between their bodies, somehow coaxing Steve into letting him drop his hips low enough to grasp both his and Matt’s cocks in one hand. Bucky starts jerking them off in sharp, desperate strokes, his and Matt’s hips quickly finding a sloppy but parallel rhythm as Bucky works them both together.

Bucky’s left hand has fallen to the mattress, using his elbow to give himself a little support, though he doesn’t bother lifting the bulk of his body up off of Matt. Bucky’s left forearm is a cold line along Matt’s shoulder, a striking counterpart to the wet heat of his mouth still working along his collarbone. Bucky’s hand stretches up, finding Matt’s cheek, cupping it in his palm, his calloused thumb stroking over the curve of Matt’s cheekbone. There’s so much power in that arm, that hand, that  _ thumb _ ; it’s distinctly different from the demonic energy the radiates out of Bucky’s entire body, but it’s equally inhuman. Matt isn’t qualified to explain or understand the difference exactly, and right at this moment he certainly doesn’t care. What he does know is that Bucky could crush Matt’s skull with a flick of his thumb, with hardly any effort at all; but he  _ won’t _ , instead he’s using that ungodly powerful finger to stroke tenderly and soothingly up into Matt’s hair, to hold him closer, to brace both of their bodies and bind them together even as his other hand pushes them closer and closer to orgams.

Distantly Matt feels the shift and dip of the mattress beneath them, and then there’s another hand, a second set of fingers twining through Bucky’s stiff, icy ones. Steve’s hand - massive, and just as terrifyingly strong, just as overwhelmingly gentle - covering Bucky’s hand so that they can stroke Matt’s hair, cradle his head together. Matt isn’t sure where Steve’s other hand is, but it doesn’t matter, because at just that moment Steve’s whole body tightens, a low deep groan bursting out of Steve’s lungs.

It’s the spark, the last push that sets off a chain reaction. Steve’s orgasm deep inside of Bucky, shoving Bucky’s hips down and into the tight grip of his hand. Bucky muffling a choked scream against the meat of Matt’s shoulder as his orgasm hits, coating his hand and Matt’s cock in fluid. And what choice does Matt have but to follow? His nails may well be scratching deep red lines into Bucky’s back but he can’t control himself any more than Bucky seems to care as Matt’s whole body flexes and he too is spurting hot cum into the grip of Bucky’s hand.

Matt has no idea what exactly happens immediately after that - which, under different circumstances, would be unnerving, but not here, not with Steve and Bucky. Somehow he doesn’t get squashed under a super soldier sandwich. Somehow the mess gets tenderly cleaned away before it can become itchy and uncomfortable. Somehow Matt gets shifted and jostled around until he’s laying on his side. That’s Steve’s chest pressed up against his back, one of Steve’s arms nestled under the crook of Matt’s neck and the other draped heavily across Matt’s waist. That’s Bucky’s hair - sweaty and tangled but still smelling sweetly of tea tree oil and sandalwood - tickling Matt’s chin; Bucky’s deep, if slightly ragged, breathing ghosting across the fresh bruises on Matt’s collarbone. Steve’s arm is long enough to reach all the way around Matt and curl across the small of Bucky’s back. There’s a thick, warm duvet pulled over them, so that Bucky can return the favor of reaching his left arm across Matt to hold onto Steve without the disparate temperature disturbing them; Bucky’s right arm is squashed in tight between his and Matt’s chest, fingers splayed out over Matt’s heart as though feeling it beat.

It’s so comfortable. Like drowning in liquid sunshine and the softest of down feathers. Normally Matt would hate to be pinned like this, bothered by being so surrounded with the innate organic sounds that bodies make, but right at this moment he’s too worn out, too sated, too wrapped up in a seemingly impenetrable bubble of safety and comfort to care.

But he should care. He should figure out how to make his muscles work again. Should extricate himself from the pile of warmth and sleepy, sated limbs. Should find his clothes, and his cane, and politely excuse himself back to his own apartment. He should not continue to lay here, in Steve and Bucky’s bed, intruding on their privacy.

“Don’t you dare,” Steve rumbles, his voice low and for a second almost sounding like Bucky when he’s being menacing. His mouth is practically right up against Matt’s ear, and Steve has the sense to keep his voice to just a fraction less than a whisper - not that it matters, given all three of their enhanced hearing.

Matt opens his mouth to protest, and finds his airway momentarily blocked by Bucky’s tongue. “Go to sleep,” Bucky says, his voice even rougher and hoarser than usual, but he wiggles a tiny bit closer to Matt - not that there’s more than a tiny bit of space between them anyway - and lays his head on Matt’s shoulder. And well, Matt knows when he’s outmatched.

It’s not like he knows where his pants ended up anyway.


End file.
